


The Silver Phoenix

by artemis_fay



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Character Study, Drama, F/M, Fantasy, Fate & Destiny, Good Mordred (Merlin), Kid Mordred (Merlin), Reflection, Short, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-19
Updated: 2020-06-19
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:55:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24797278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/artemis_fay/pseuds/artemis_fay
Summary: The life of Mordred, told in eight vignettes.
Relationships: Kara/Mordred (Merlin)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 16





	The Silver Phoenix

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the shot of Mordred's body in the series finale.

1

Mordred is very young when he learns about the silver phoenix.

Hands grasp his shoulders, gently pulling him from sleep, and he opens his eyes to see his father’s familiar face.

“Mordred,” he whispers. “There is something I need to show you.”

Mordred goes with him because his father is all he knows, all he loves, the sole object of his childish adoration. He goes because his father knows things, shows him things that most can only dream of.

They walk quickly. Small feet scrabbling against the dirt, his father leads him into the woods, far away from the druid camp, and tells him to close his eyes. Through the fog of drowsiness Mordred can only make out a soft murmur before he is told to look. When he opens his eyes he gasps in awe.

Before him, the most beautiful bird he’s ever seen blinks it’s large eyes. Its moon-colored feathers are long and silky, it’s beak delicate.

“Father, what is it?”

A hint of sadness flickers over his father’s face before he speaks.

“A silver phoenix,” he murmurs. “I wasn’t sure you would be able to see it.”

“What does it mean?” Mordred doesn’t like the way his father is now looking at him, with a mixture of pity and fear. The phoenix lets out a mournful cry.

His father takes his time answering, eyes fixed on the starry sky that glows serenely above them. Mordred yawns, wishing that his father hadn’t woken him, his interest in the bird waning rapidly. But when his father finally says something, the sound of his melancholy voice makes him focus again. His words are hollow and almost proud.

“That you are destined for great things.”

2

When Mordred meets Kara he falls in love with her immediately, in the way children fall in love, with adventure and admiration and without romance. He follows her everywhere, and she shows him that the woods are brimming with excitement and life, with bubbling rivers that sigh when swum through and trees that hold strong under the grip of their sweaty hands.

Late one night she creeps into his tent, a finger held to her lips, and leads him, the way his father did several years earlier, into the woods. She tells him to show her his magic.

Mordred has only recently discovered that he has the gift so revered among his people, the gift that belongs to so few, and he can only perform small acts of power. His father always warns him to be careful, that many would see him killed for what he can do. Frozen with fear, he shakes his head in response, drawing away from her.

“Please,” she whispers. “I overheard your father. He said you’ll be one of the most powerful sorcerers to ever live.”

“Except for Emrys,” Mordred adds under his breath. He, like the other druid children, has heard the stories of the warlock of legend who will bring peace to the land and end their persecution forever.

“It’s not fair,” Kara says, voice wavering, after a moment of silence. Mordred looks at her in surprise.

“What do you mean?”

“Everyone says you have a destiny. Everyone expects so much.” Her voice breaks and her eyes fill with tears. “No one has ever said that of me.”

Mordred doesn’t think of it that way. It has always been simple, a fact, that some grand life awaits him. It has never mattered. The only thing that matters is here, now, the days he spends with Kara and his father. The future is very far away, too far away to be real. But now, looking at the tears falling down Kara’s face, he realizes she sees it differently.

He doesn’t want her to cry, he doesn’t want her to be sad, but he doesn’t know what to do. So he does the only thing he can think of, which is what she asks.

Focusing, he cups his hands together and reaches for the fabric of the universe that he has come to know well, bending it, if only slightly, to his will. When he pulls his hands apart again a flower sits in them. Its rich red petals are soft against his skin.

Kara’s eyes widen in awe, and Mordred feels a rush of pride. He hands the flower to her, smiling, and watches as she giggles and tucks it into her wavy brown hair. His heartbeat quickens.

As they walk back to the camp together, her hand in his, he promises himself that he will never let her cry again. He vows to always protect her from sorrow, no matter the cost, if only to make her smile the way she is smiling tonight.

3

His father points out Emrys in the crowd and Mordred can sense his power immediately.

Electrifying and tangible, it sends waves of energy rippling through the bustling square. How do the people swarming around them like flies not notice it? How has he not been discovered? To Mordred, the young sorcerer’s magic seems like the most obvious thing in the world. His gaze clings to Emrys, noting the way he walks, the way he smiles, the way his face seems so average, so ordinary, so like the face of any other citizen of Camelot.

Perhaps this is why he seems so trustworthy, why when the guards seize Mordred’s father and send him running frantically for his life, he reaches out to Emrys for help.

Of course, what Mordred senses in Emrys is nothing compared to the force that surrounds Morgana— her energy is quieter, dulled beneath layers of prejudice and privilege, but there is something disquieting about it, something that feels dark and icy; it burrows beneath Mordred's skin and lingers.

Ironically, her actions couldn’t feel warmer. She treats him like a son, stroking his forehead and looking intently into his eyes, and as strange as her aura seems he can’t help but feel safe around her. He knows she would never harm him.

But then the axe falls, and Mordred is sure he will never feel safe again.

4

“Do you hate Camelot?”

He poses the question to Alvarr, the cruel-eyed man who offered to take Mordred in and give him something too tempting to pass up: protection and a permanent home.

“What kind of question is that?” Alvarr laughs coldly, poking at the large fire in front of them, sending sparks drifting into the night sky. Then he pauses, thinking.

“Do you hate Camelot, young Mordred?” He bends over so their eyes are level. Mordred doesn’t know what to say. He remembers what it was like to sense his father dying, his spirit wailing silently before crumbling like weathered stone. He thinks of Kara, of the days she would proclaim her defiance of the king from the top of the tallest trees near their camp while Mordred took in everything she said uneasily.

“Someone was kind to me there,” he says at last. “They helped me escape.”

In reality, several people helped him, but for some reason, only one face appears in his mind when he thinks of his time in Camelot. It's easier, simpler, to think of it that way.

For a while, Alvarr doesn’t speak, only stares into the flames, brow furrowed, mouth set in a determined line.

“This person,” Alvarr says carefully, “Do they care about you?” He pauses again, opening and closing his mouth several times. “Would they help you, if you asked them to?”

Mordred breathes in deeply, weighing his options. He has heard Alvarr speak about the Crystal of Neahtid, about fighting against Camelot for the rights of those the kingdom hunts and murders. He has overheard parts of conversations and pieced together what Alvarr and his people seek to accomplish, and what they are willing to sacrifice to get there. But mostly, he misses Morgana and the way she took care of him and wants desperately to see her again.

“Yes.”

For a moment Mordred imagines he sees a flash of silver feathers against the trees that encircle them, gleaming against the shadowy branches. He looks more closely, but it disappears before him, leaving behind nothing but darkness.

5

When Mordred meets Kara the second time he thinks about his destiny, something that hasn’t crossed his mind since his father’s death.

He sees her in the druid camp he has taken refuge in for the night. She’s taller and her face has sharpened; her eyes glow with a determined defiance that hadn’t quite taken shape when she was a little girl. When she meets his eyes they run to each other and he clings to her, breathing in her hair while blinking back tears. He never imagined he would see her again.

They wander in the woods for hours, telling long stories about the years they were absent from each other’s lives. When he tells her about his father’s death her face lights up wildly.

“Camelot will fall. The High Priestess will be its undoing, and finally, this time of destruction will end.” Her words come quickly and leave her breathless, cheeks flushed with anger and excitement, eyes narrowed in determination.

“The High Priestess?” Mordred has heard about the High Priestesses of the Old Religion in stories, but his father told him they were all gone, annihilated during the Great Purge.

“Morgana Pendragon,” Kara says, smiling darkly. “She will save us all.”

The name makes Mordred’s gut clench in shock. Morgana? The young woman who had helped him all those years ago? His head spins. For so long he has drifted between bands of smugglers, surviving however he could, desperate to avoid the druids and their constant reminders of what he is destined to do. Exactly what that is, he has no idea. So few know, and those that do refuse to tell him. But perhaps helping Morgana is part of it.

He leaves the same night, alone, despite Kara’s pleading.

“Take me with you,” she whispers. “I want to help. I can fight—”

“I know.” Mordred can’t let her come. He wishes it was only out of concern for her safety, but there’s something else, too. Kara doesn’t have magic. She wouldn’t understand the connection he feels with Morgana, how she has always been kind and protected him.

“Please.” Kara grabs his wrists angrily, squeezing them just a little too tightly.

Looking at the desperation in her face, something wounded stirs inside him, and without thinking he presses his lips to hers. Her grip on him slackens, and after a moment she kisses him back.

When he pulls away she stands there, dumbfounded, and watches as Mordred mounts his horse and rides away.

6

The cave is damp and dark. Mordred watches on in disbelief as Morgana drives the knife into Arthur’s chest, her laugh more frozen than the land he traveled across to get here, to see her again. He wishes he had stayed. He wishes he was a little boy again, looking at her smiling at him, so sure that the darkness emanating from her was a mistake. Now, he knows he had been foolish to dismiss it.

It is only when listening to Arthur speak to her gently that he remembers how Morgana was not the only one who had cared about his safety. He remembers Arthur asking him his name, even though it shouldn’t have mattered to him. Arthur had been a prince, destined to be king, and yet, he had wanted to know the name of a druid boy.

He plunges the knife into Morgana and her body crumples.

“Mordred?”

Her voice breaks, and for a moment he wonders if he has made a terrible mistake. But then his eyes land on Arthur, collapsed against the rock, barely withholding moans of pain.

He lets Morgana fall to the ground, and leaves her in the dark as he helps carry Arthur away.

7

When Kara exits the world something inside Mordred shrivels up and wilts. He knows, can sense, that she died smiling, proud to have defied Camelot to the last.

Sitting behind bars, Mordred suddenly feels like he is very young again, sitting in Morgana’s chambers as a different but very similar king murdered his father.

Rage boils in his blood, searing hot, muddling his thoughts until the only thing he can remember is how he promised himself to always protect Kara. He has failed. He has failed, and now he has to make it up to her in the only way she would have wanted.

The scream tears its way out of his mouth like a wild animal, taking down the bars in a storm of power. He knows what he has to do. He has to take her place, do what she had always wanted to, fight for she had always believed in.

When he kneels in front of Morgana he knows he is doing the right thing, the honorable thing, the only thing that can make things okay again. He looks up at her and sees not a human being, not a friend, but an ally.

His only real friend was Kara, and now she is gone. He won’t let her down again.

8

The body-strewn battlefield stretches before him like a skeleton, lifeless and unfeeling. The only thing that matters is Arthur Pendragon, who crouches, covered in shining armor, closer to victory than he realizes. Mordred can’t let him win, not when he has lost everything, not when Arthur has gotten away with so much. But not this time.

Arthur turns around and rises, but Mordred won’t see him, can’t see him, not when he knows that truly looking at the king will stop him from doing what has to be done. A demon rises from the rubble and melds over Arthur’s skin. It smirks cruelly.

The sword passes through Arthur’s body smoothly, and when Mordred yanks it out the demon is gone. In front of him is a broken man, chain mail smeared with dirt, eyes brimming with pain.

He looks like Kara.

When Arthur struggles to his feet and rams his sword into Mordred’s stomach Mordred feels nothing but relief. He smiles.

He falls, but really he can’t be falling because he has already fallen, he fell when Kara’s body twitched at the end of a rope, when the guards seized his father, when a beautiful bird looked at him with sorrowful eyes.

Long after he knows he is done for, after he can no longer move, after Emrys carries Arthur away and leaves Mordred to die alone, a silver phoenix swoops down from the paling sky and lands in front of him.

As a single silver feather falls from its body onto the battlefield Mordred wonders if it always had to happen this way. He wonders if he has done something great.


End file.
